NEVEN

He curled on the windowsil to their temporary lodgings while in the grand city of Volaris. City quarters separated by layers of walls and tall structures, but more stout than the Irimount counterparts. Lights sparkled along the streets, and in every shadow he expected the shift of a monster. Behind it all, a sky he never saw. His fingers tugged on the strings of his lute, trying to listen to the chord refusing to make sense in his mind. His feathers flowed with the music to gather in his ears, a note on the breeze as he played its sullen tune, in time with the musicians in the distant opera house. Each one fluttered the flow around him as he listened, felt, and heard the song deep inside his soul. He rested his head against the pegs, to play the lowest of dulcet hums to the highest of sopranic whispers.

"Blizzard to Nev."

But maybe I can wake up.

He brushed his fingers down the bridge of the lute, to feel each note played along his fingers. Creation sparked magick when he tried to scream out through the pieces of music. He frowned when Tyvan poked him. "Huh?"

"Are you okay? Bout of the flurries? Battle nerves?" Tyvan pressed. "You've been so off since that Warden trounced you. Here I thought you could take her."

Neven leaned out the window to catch the last strings of music before it faded from memory. Voices, songs, excited and nervous bounced between his ears and tickled his feathers. His mind drifted to the ideal, not of the Knights of the Round, but of the sun — simple and true.

What if I told you you could help other people? Further than Irimount, past the mountain range? Anaysa's voice cried out a powerful song above a city's jubilant celebration. He ran his fingers to twist at the pegs, to correct the song. His stomach churned and crystal bells sang. He put his lute to the side to don his armor, and ice glaive at the ready, he followed Tyvan — but he wanted nothing more than to sit on the windowsil, overlooking the expanse to play his song.

People cheered when the Irimount Squires poured into the tournament dome. Snow crystals danced over the roof. Everyone came down to view the best of Blizzard Squires — those who'd protect them from the outside walls, and he shivered at the thought of what rested in every dune, waiting to feast. Unable to chase the Derelicts out of his darkest nightmares. Icicles cracked in his ears, and he shivered at the sound of a crystal horn. Stands rose high above his head, and the image sent a ripple of excitement through everyone.

But him.

I am the descendant of Atoran Lotayrin, the Ice Blade of Naveera. He stood straighter at the music. This is what I've always wanted to be. What I've always wanted to do since I knew how to want.

In the highest seats, the king with his pearl-studded crown atop his brow. In a lower seat, the Princess of Naveera, beautiful and out of reach. Her moon-spun locks shone underneath the crystal light, as crystal studded wrappings tied her loops together into a braided crown around her head. Neven frowned at the cold emptiness in her eyes, a familiar twinge entering his heart. Everyone turned to the king when he got out of the chair, and Neven followed the procession of bowed heads, to never look upon those who flew higher than the rest — not that it stopped some from gawking at the beautiful princess.

But that look on her face...

"Welcome to Volaris," King Jevtay said. "Many of you have arrived here for the chance at showing your skill with the blade — and I offer yet another gift to the one who will rise above the rest." He waved his hand at Princess Hayvala, who sucked in her lips. "I offer the opportunity of a betrothal to my daughter, the Princess Hayvala Travon of Naveera."

The Derelict hissed in his mind, and he straightened himself out when King Jevtay motioned for them to stand. "Turn your attention to Knight Valiant Maraz to hear more of your trials."

Neven fought to focus on the tasks, but the shadowed expressions of the people in the stands drove teeth into his shoulders and swept another wave of strange agitation through him. He winced when the Knight Valiant of Volaris dropped the banners, woven with the crests of the participating squires.

It fell silent with each person dissecting them.

Until all fell on the intertwined icy ribbons of the three golden glaives — the House of Lotayrin.

One of the Volaris squires jerked from their line. "Lotayrin!?" He leaned out of his line to investigate them, and some of his fellow squires stood on their toes to peek at them. Neven slipped his tongue over his teeth and begged for his peers to not say a word. He willed the Knight Valiant in the stands to not bring attention to it either, but he was the descendent of the legendary Atoran Lotayrin — the Ice Knight of Ice Knights. Even Princess Hayvala lifted her head with dimmed curiosity, but it never filled the emptiness in her opalescent eyes with light.

There was no escaping the heritage he carried, no more than he could escape the nightmare of a Derelict.

"The first task is to deal with multiple frost thralls alone," Knight Valiant Maraz said. "And then it will be a round robin. One versus one to prove what exceptional Blizzard Sentinels you'll become." He glared down at them. "You'll show yourselves to the quartermaster to get a true ice glaive."

"Wonder how they're going to pick," Tyvan mumbled, but Neven knew the answer.

Neven drove his fangs deeper into his own jaw when a name called over the crowds. Over and over. He wanted to drown in pride, in a sense of accomplishment and home. It crushed his lungs underneath a thick layer of ice, and no matter how he pounded for air, it never cracked to release him from its grip. Derelicts swam around him, snapping their jaws at his ankles with bloodied teeth.

"Lotayrin!" the Knight Valiant repeated.

Tyvan and the other Irimount squires stepped out of his way to set the bar of expectation for all the others. Neven bit his tongue and lifted his head to the royal seatings and stepped out of the safety of his friends. Whispers grew over the stands, into an excited song for tales long gone. He slammed his practice glaive into the ground, then bowed to the King and Princess, one hand against his back and another across his front. He held out his hand to catch the true ice glaive the quartermaster tossed him from the small entrance into the back areas, where he longed to sit and play any manner of instruments, to listen to each one's tune, and to understand the uncertainty drowning him.

He waited for the King to nod at him before turning to the other squires. Tyvan wore a mask of passive disinterest, but there was an insatiable, slavering hunger in the Volaris squires. He kept his glaive close at the red memory. Herded out of his way, he winced at the interest of the Blizzard Sentinels at his repeated name in the stands, and the shadow of the crowd bit at him.

I've been training for this.

He readied himself when frost thralls escaped the runes all across the wall of the stands. Together, they collected to create a layer of rising mist.

Icicles grew out of their backs.

He choked on a shard of ice, and the added apprehension and excitement tugged him deeper into the abyss. In his usual stance, he took one last look at the royal seats. Curiosity and expectation, and he tried not to betray any of his fear. He took a small step back, then stopped when Princess Hayvala's opal eyes swirled, and then raised a handkerchief for him, with the faint echo of a smile.

The cheers of the crowd never rang with the song in his heart, dissonant and off-key.

He returned his attention to the thralls and waited for the crack of the crystal gong.

It rang, and the thralls attacked.

Except he was all alone, in the middle of the blizzard, with the screaming Derelict who never fit into any song.

He leaped over one breath of wind and carried himself on empty wings. His glaive slammed into the next one's neck, but they remained relentless. Unending. Hungry. Depraved. One chewed on his shaft and clawed at his legs, but he tossed it to the side with a long sweep to send a wave of glyph ice across his immediate area. Water gurgled underneath him, and he slid along to draw his glyphs closer to strike the incoming Derelicts.

Entire worlds blurred past him without the light of the sun. He swiped into endless maws. Ice collected at the tip of his blade, and he threw his glaive into two more thralls. It slammed into the border of the wards, and the snow from their bodies fell around him, falling on the thin golden shimmer gathering over his skin, creating scaly gaps.

It cheered, and he would see it through.

His friends applauded him for his quick takedowns, though Tyvan narrowed his eyes. The Volaris squires and crowds hungered, and their expectations weighed him in dark water. He won one trial, but lost against the Derelict. On the sidelines to watch friend and opposition alike go through the frost trial, but something was missing behind the rests of a passage of music, unable to be filled with the cheers of the crowds.

It was in their movements; in their voices when they sang out praises or jeered at failure.

It's all... just a game.

Thralls never held the terror and sheer force of Derelicts, the hunger, or the primal need for magickae flesh. One by one, the enemies fell; from frosty monsters or people.

"You'd make an excellent Storm Warden."

Warden Anaysa's words echoed in his mind — that he dismissed, but now he could not deny the truth in front of him.

She didn't mean it... did she? I scoffed. I scoffed at her. I can't imagine leaving Irimount. I can't. This is my home. I want to protect my home as Atoran had done for the Snow Prince — the once and future king.

It was his turn to make his dreaming song into a reality.

It was a Volaris squire he stood against — a little older than he was, but no doubt skilled — but Anaysa's movements bespoke a purpose, a sharpened edge against real threats. Neven breathed deep to silence the cheering world of his name; they wanted a show.

They wanted the Atoran Lotayrin reborn.

I am... a proud Naveeran. I am proud of my song. I am the descendent of Atoran Lotayrin, and I want to follow in his footsteps.

Expectations of his own rose to join the deafening crystal chorus, almost silencing the start of the match. His opponent wasted no time in his attack, but Neven copied her motion of the flow. He skidded out of the way at the world's hush, allowing the ice to carry him into flight, to stretch out his arms to feel the feathered wings of his ancestry.

I am the descendant of Atoran Lotayrin.

He kicked the squire to the side when he came for a thrust, and understood the flow of the song of the distant promise of a sun. He flipped onto another broken patch of ice to latch onto the squire's polearm, never having to draw out his own ice glaive against something so empty. He twisted around their back, into the dance of wyverns to throw them to the side.

I am the descendent of Atoran Lotayrin, the Ice Knight of Old Naveera. I have wanted nothing else. I wanted to protect Irimount from the enemies outside our walls.

He scowled when the Volaris squire used his momentum to throw him into the wards. Snow collected around his shoulders and glimmered with stars. The squire came closer, thirsty for a sense of worth and approval.

Neven listened to the ice beneath his feet, and the mirage of the Derelict formed behind the squire, who taunted him, wanting something more than what life gave.

He grabbed his glaive when he came closer to finish him. Princess Hayvala's smile never dropped, and King Jevtay folded his arms.

Water pulsed.

His lungs expanded with the cold fire of a wyvern.

I...

The song slowed into a crescendo.

I am Neven Lotayrin.

He stood back up on his two legs as a hush filled the cracks in the crowd.

I don't need this much ice to hold me over water.

Icy glaives slammed out from underneath the layer of ice through quick spinning glyphs, carved with his song, exploding them into unsteady patches. The Volaris squire scowled and chose a bigger platform, but Neven gave it all up to stand on the constant water. He allowed it to slip past the tip of his clawed boot, and he rushed along the waves to the squire, who struggled to steady himself. Mist streamed out of his mouth, and the crowd gasped, but he sped for the Derelict who threatened to tear open another life.

He knocked the Volaris squire to his hindquarters and snow blasted against the wards. He knelt over the squire while crowds cheered.

He wanted to feel something, to feel pride in what he accomplished.

But... I don't feel anything.

... I don't want this.

Neven got off the Volaris squire, then dropped his glaive at his feet, savoring the ringing silence of his one action, to give up the song not meant for him, not even the potential promised hand of a princess gave him any sense of drive or motivation.

I'm... I'm not Atoran Lotayrin come again. I'm Neven Lotayrin, and... I want to go past the walls of Irimount — of Naveera. He reformed the ice of the battlefield, no longer feeling the exhaustion from before at the stunned silence of his audience. I want to see the sun. I want to see what's behind those clouds. I want to fight a real enemy. Derelicts who hunger over the lands and harm the innocent. I want... to protect those who live upon this star.

He looked up, and came face to face with a sapphire-eyed young wyvern, whose golden scales shimmered in the dark of the new landscape. Feathers bloomed along their tail and around their spiraling horns, sharing his weary peace deep inside its beaded pupils.

It bellowed out a soft, low hum and he understood.

I have to see the sun — just once. Once, and then I'll know. I'll know if it will be worth it in the end.

Naveera can see it if I can.